


Whither Shall I Wander

by st_aurafina



Series: The Unexpected Skillset of Harold Finch [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpaca Snot, Established Relationship, Geese Are Assholes, M/M, On the Run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 17:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17902046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: 3. Poultry Management(Running from Samaritan, Harold and John must hide out on a farm.)





	Whither Shall I Wander

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to lilacsigil for the beta. 
> 
> Geese are assholes: https://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-11-21/badly-behaved-geese-go-viral/10514732

John pulled up to the roadblock, and kept a calm, bored expression on his face. The highway patrol cop came over to his open window and John showed his badge. 

"Sorry, detective, we can't let you through this way. Didn't you hear about the chemical spill on your radio?" 

"Yeah, believe me, I'd much rather stay on this side of the evac line," said John. "But lucky me, I get to ferry this surgeon across the bottom corner of the zone. Some kind of transplant situation – it's faster this way, since we can't get choppers in the air." Beside him, Harold, always a good improviser, contrived to look as lofty as possible. 

The cop was dubious, one hand reaching for his radio to confirm the story. John leaned out of the window, supposedly so that the surgeon in the passenger seat couldn't hear him. "The brass told me the danger was minimal, but I'm worried they're bullshitting me – is it true? Are they giving you guys breathing gear or anything? I just don't want to be hung out to dry, you know?" 

The cop relaxed, and gave him a nod. "Yeah, man, we haven't seen a damn thing yet. It's not on the radios yet, but the nearest Hazmat team is twenty miles thataway." He pointed northwest, and John nodded his understanding. 

"So, unless the wind changes, northeast is probably clear for now?" 

"Hope the weather's on your side," said the cop. "Kinda want something to go right today for somebody." He stepped to the side and waved them on. 

John drove on in silence for a while. "We're not going to get too many of those breaks, Finch," he said eventually. "I can't believe Samaritan would stage a chemical spill just to catch us. This has to be costing millions. To capture four people." 

"Perhaps if we wait long enough, it will simply burn through the GDP and run out of funds?" Harold said. "On a happier note, our number has cleared the evacuation zone, and should be on their way to the city." 

"Well, that's something," said John. "It's getting harder to work numbers. Sooner or later, someone's going to get caught in Samaritan's crossfire." 

"That is our responsibility, Mr Reese. I'm not turning a number away," said Harold. "Not ever again." As a means of punctuation, he opened his laptop and tapped briskly. If John asked, he'd say he was following up on their number, and on Shaw and Root's situation in the city. John was well versed in the language of Harold's shoulders, though, and this was definitely 'I have no answers for you, Mr Reese, so I'm going to pretend to be very busy right now until you stop asking difficult questions.' 

John flashed his badge at the next roadblock, and was waved through. "I can't bluff my way through the whole evacuation zone. Someone's going to run my badge number eventually," he said. Behind him, the cop scrawled the licence plate of their car down on his notepad, and John sighed. "Gotta change cars again, Finch." 

Harold nodded, and flipped open his laptop. "I'll find us something suitable." He worked quickly and quietly for a few minutes. John watched out of the corner of his eye as windows opened and closed, with increasing desperation. "They've put up so many more stopping points," Harold said. "We're going to be at another one inside ten miles." 

John saw a wooden sign hanging by the road, swinging to and fro in the gentle breeze: Appleyard Farm. He made a quick decision, and slung the car onto the dirt road. 

Harold didn't notice until he was uncomfortably jostled by a pothole. He grabbed his laptop before it slid off his knees. "Why did you leave the main road?" He gazed out the window, perplexed by the crowding trees with low-hanging branches. 

"Our best bet is to wait the evacuation out," said John. He slowed the car so that Harold wasn't bounced so vigorously. "Samaritan has its best chance when we're on the run: changing cars, swift-talking cops, those things make us vulnerable. The number is safe, Root and Shaw are safe, we don't have to be anywhere until Samaritan thinks it's missed us and has to let people come home. We've been passing empty houses for miles; might as well use one for shelter." 

Harold's expression was dubious but he said nothing as John eased the car into the yard. 

The farmhouse itself was eerily perfect: gables painted red, windows with gingham curtains, a porch with a seat and a line of boots, a pitchfork leaning against the wall. A large sign said, in friendly, carved letters, "Welcome to Appleyard Farmstay and Petting Zoo!" There was even a swing hanging from the huge oak tree where John hid the car from satellite view.

"At least we won't want for accommodations," Harold said, and got out of the car, wincing at the effort. 

Even if this place was kitsch as hell, John was glad they'd stopped. Harold was not moving comfortably, they were both tired. John discovered when he stepped out of the car that he'd sprained an ankle sometime during their escape. 

"Aren't we a good pair?" said Harold, as they limped up the stairs. "I presume you'll want to clear the building, but then I hope you'll let me ice that ankle." He peered through a gingham-framed window. "Presuming they have ice." 

Much of the ground floor was given over to the gift store and reception for the farm stay guests, but once John had made sure that they were the only inhabitants, he let Harold loose in the small but professional kitchen to organise ice. Meanwhile John hobbled through the grounds, gun in hand, checking the perimeter. 

The owners had obviously evacuated in a hurry: there had been no time to shut the store, though the cash had been cleared from the register. The yard was empty, though there were signs that dogs lived here: the owners had obviously taken animals that could be transported with them. That left most of the petting zoo, though, and John wove between pens with goats and deer, rabbits and guinea pigs, ducking under the head of a curious alpaca as it leaned towards him. 

Something pinched him hard on the back of the calf. He spun, automatically finding his target, which was a large and angry goose. It hissed at him, neck long and low, and came at him again, orange beak open. John raised his gun, which, as it was a goose, it failed to recognise as a danger. John didn't want to shoot someone's pet, he really didn't, but it was so close, and he only had one good leg left. 

"Dominate it, Mr Reese!" Harold shouted from the porch. He flapped his arms as if he was trying to fly. 

John stared at him, kicked the goose away a few feet, then imitated Harold's movements. "Get out of here!" he shouted, waving his arms. The goose – or was it a gander? John made a note to ask Harold, whose avian expertise clearly extended past making clever aliases – froze upright, wings outstretched in a threat display. It opened its beak and let out a slow, angry hiss, tongue protruding horribly. John reminded himself he was an international spy and assassin, and loomed over the goose, arms out. 

"I. Will. Eat. You." He spoke in his low, menacing voice, the one he saved for interrogations and negotiations at gunpoint. The goose deflated, retreating slowly until it was a safe distance from John, at which point it turned and fled, wings flapping, honking a warning to its harem or whatever geese have. 

"I hope you're not serious," Harold said, much closer to him now. "If you are, please tell me you'll do the plucking." 

John glared at him. "I'm still clearing the place, Finch!" he said. 

Harold shrugged. "Honestly, Mr Reese, if there were anyone else here, don't you think the goose would have let us know? They did save Rome, after all." 

"I guess that's why the Roman Empire is so huge these days," John said, which would have been a great comeback if an alpaca had not been investigating his hair. He stood his ground, and pretended it wasn't happening. The alpaca breathed lovingly in his ear then sneezed wetly, and Harold started laughing. 

"I'm sorry," he said, and passed John his pocket square. He watched John dab delicately at the alpaca snot on his face. "It is a long time since I've felt like laughing." 

John cleaned himself up as best he could with the square of peacock silk, then pressed the sticky, crumpled ball into Harold's palm with a smile. "Thanks," he said, and went to check the barn. 

Harold was right: it had been a long time since things had been okay, and if John had to play the straight man to an alpaca to make Harold smile, it was worth a little loss of dignity. When he glanced behind, he saw Harold wipe the snot fastidiously on a fencepost, and limp after him. 

The barn was spacious, and mostly empty; John was pleased. "I'm going to put the car in here," he said. "Just in case they start checking door to door."

"Yes, good idea," said Harold, in a preoccupied voice. John came over to see what had caught his eye, and found him in the feed room. The owners of the farm had an extensive chart to track feeding for all of their animals, and Harold stood in front of it like a kid with a new television. Harold did like a well-written chart, John thought with a smile. He patted him gently on the shoulder. 

"I'll leave you two alone," he said, and went to get the car. When he had parked it next to a grey tractor, he came through the barn to see Harold checking the feed levels in the big plastic bins. 

"I feel a little responsible." Harold gazed out over the little farmyard. "It must have been very hard for the owners to leave this place." He turned to look at John. "They took the dogs," he said. 

John put his arms around Harold from behind, squeezed him gently. "This is not our fault; this is on Samaritan. They'll be home soon. This won't matter to them in the long run." 

Harold nodded. He patted John's hands awkwardly. "Come inside – I haven't forgotten about that ankle. There is plenty of ice back at the house." 

In the kitchen, which was all stainless steel surfaces and professional cold rooms, Harold strapped John's ankle with practised efficiency and put an ice pack on it. 

John propped his foot on a chair, and watched Harold potter, making sandwiches, cutting slices from a baked ham, spreading artisan conserves on crusty bread. 

"We're going to eat well tonight, presuming we're staying," Harold said, pointing at a cast-iron pot on the stovetop. "Split pea soup, and a Boeuf Bourguignon cooling in the oven." 

"No goose?" John said. 

"No, the goose lives to fight again." Harold balanced a teapot and cups on a tray and went to the dining room. John picked up the plate of sandwiches and hobbled after him. It was odd to have this bubble of leisure, and a comfortable place to spend it in. He supposed this is what a vacation would feel like, were he and Harold ever able to take one. 

Harold spent the rest of the afternoon in the guests' living room, working on the farm's router, creating a secure connection so he could leave coded messages for Root and Shaw. John dozed in an overstuffed armchair beside him, and only woke when Harold unwound the bandages to check the bruising, replaced the icepack, and kissed his forehead. It had been a long and anxious few days for the two of them, working at a distance from their regular base of operations, and Harold always tired more when he was out of his comfort zone. 

By the time the light was fading, John woke to hear Harold's uneven tread on the porch. Worried something had happened, John was up and moving in seconds, ignoring the pain in his ankle. 

Harold turned when John appeared at the door, gun out and low. "It's nothing, Mr Reese," he said. "I thought I'd better lock up the chickens before it gets too dark and I can't see the ground" 

"Okay," said John, uncertain. "But why?" 

"Foxes, Mr Reese. I'd hate these poor people to come home to a bloodbath." 

John walked with him, to the feed room where Harold collected a scoop of corn from a bin, and then to the chicken coop. As they left the barn, John picked up a rake, in case the goose made another appearance. Harold shook the corn in the plastic scoop, and chickens came running out of the twilight, clucking and fussing and crowding at his feet. Harold threw handfuls down in the run, and the round, happy birds fluttered over each other to get to it. Harold counted them in, pointing out different breeds to John: Plymouth Rocks and Jersey Giants, Dominiques and bantams and Rhode Island Reds. 

"You know a lot about chickens," said John. "Is there a Harold Leghorn I've yet to meet? Nice Southern gentleman?"

Harold closed the gate and latched it, but John saw his pleased smile before he turned. "They'll wake us in the morning," he said. "I wouldn't want you to be startled." 

"I served in Afghanistan, Finch," said John, as they hobbled through the barn. "Once you're outside the cities, it's mostly chickens and goats." 

"But not geese," Harold said, cruelly. 

Later that night, his belly full, and feeling lightly buzzed on microbrewed beer, John tried to take his shoes off while Harold kissed him and peeled him out of his clothes. He stepped awkwardly on his swollen ankle and fell sideways onto the thick down-stuffed comforter, pulling Harold with him. It was a soft landing but there was some flailing – the bed was very, very soft and they both wallowed in it for a while. John laughed, and got them better organised: Harold propped on pillows to support his hip and neck, and John above him. 

"Actually, wait," said John, pulling away from a kiss with a gasp. "Maybe we should check the other beds. I don't think you should sleep on this giant marshmallow. You'll be stiff as a board in the morning." 

"I'm a little ahead of schedule on that front." Harold, equally buzzed despite his claims not to enjoy beer, took advantage of his relaxed state and ground upwards against John's hip to demonstrate. "This isn't the story of Goldilocks, John. I'll be fine."

When the sweat had cooled on his skin enough to raise goose bumps on his skin, John pulled the comforter up over Harold's shoulders, and settled back against the pillows to watch him sleep. John wasn't planning on sleeping himself, not in the middle of a mission and in a strange place, despite Harold plying him with beer and late night exertion. 

Harold liked it here, he thought. No, that wasn't quite right. Harold felt at home here, which was odder, because there was no man more urbane than Harold Finch, no matter what pseudonym he was using. Still, he'd let John see a different side of him today, one that was comfortable with uneven wooden porches and feed rooms, who knew to lock up the chickens, and who ran a fond hand over the curved fender of the parked tractor. 

John leaned over and kissed Harold just below his ear, and Harold smiled, eyes still closed. 

"What is it?" Harold asked, his voice hoarse with sleep. He reached out for John, and John spooned up against him with an arm over his chest. 

"You were a farm boy, Harold Finch." It wasn't a question. John was certain, and the fact that Harold wanted him to know made his heart clench. 

Harold's smile widened, just for a moment. "Shhh," he said. "Very private person, remember?"


End file.
